Wisdoms of a Prisoner
by Writer Awakened
Summary: Spiritual in a broad, philosphical sense A normal man, a wandering philosopher with a love for life, is jailed by the Black Fang.


Wisdoms of a Prisoner

-

_"Many people have asked how to climb a mountain in a day. My answer is always 'start walking.'"_

"_There is no failure. If you have tried, you have succeeded."_

_"A lie is merely a truth made in a certain way to conform to certain circumstances. In this way, there are no lies, only truths of various perspectives. The truth Is."_

-

The captive sat against the back wall of the dark cell. At first arrival, he was uncomfortable sitting on this floor, a stone sheet infested with rat bones, dirt, and a strange slimy substance. Even after becoming accustomed to the bare sight of darkness, the prisoner could see no further than his hands, and only by tracing along the walls of his cell- rough and stony- could he determine the size and scale of the cell. Each wall, including the front bars, could keep two lengths of him across if he stretched his arms to their fullest span. His belongings- several potions, a stack of paper and a quill, a silver talisman to ward off misfortune, et. al- had been taken from him, and in exchange he had been given a permanent home and two meals a day.

The prisoner sat with his knees up, elbows upon his knees, head between his elbows, hands clutching his head. Not having completely submitted his will to solitary confinement, his semi-fetal curl nevertheless appeared a distinct act of submission. The prisoner barely raised his head, but could see through the lids of his eyes a faint orange glow, and hear the rough voice of a male guard with what looked like a thick mass of dark hair around his face and a towering physique.

"Given up already? Why don't ya get up and try to escape? Go on 'n make a run fer it!"

Having amused himself (and having left the captive his rations), the guard strode away, carrying his torch in the air like an emblem. In the fading tails of the light, the captive stretched to retrieve his food (stale bread and sea water) from its position just outside the bars of his cell. Famished, the prisoner went to sleep with a wish to no one in particular that he would be all right, and he did not awake until eating time the next morning.

-

_"If you would be confronted, defend yourself as best you can. Be reminded, a shield is to smite, not to kill."_

_"Do not confuse not being able to with not knowing how to."_

_"Those who have never done perhaps have never tried."_

-

By what the captive assumed to be mid-afternoon, he had forgotten the events of the morning. He vaguely remembered a female guard in a simple gray cloak speaking to him, and could clearly remember the warm, white loaf of bread he ate, but he couldn't remember a thing else. That night, the familiar guard with the rough voice delivered his stale bread and sea water. His latest taunt the prisoner did not even consider repeating aloud. Deep inside, the prodding hurt, and though all of his self-proposed wisdoms urged otherwise, a little part inside of him hated his jailers.

-

_"What of the world? If we see ourselves as countries, theocracies, and monarchies, we fail to see ourselves as brothers. When Mother Earth herself passes on, there will be one proud epitaph scattered amongst millions of graves of fools."_

_"What does it matter how we were created? We are all here now. Philosophy is only useful in the context of discovering the new, not rationalizing the old."_

_"Why is it that freedom stretches only as far as the blade of the biggest sword?"_

-

The prisoner had arrived at his new dark home after many weeks wandering Valor. With no more than a passing credibility to his name on the mainland, he decided that nature would play a nice host to his journey of discovery. On his first day, he laid his hand on a native flower, pink with swirls of orange, epitomizing the reaches of nature here, and instanly understood why he had come.

The traveler, never known to be anything more than a foolish dreamer in his native land, felt at ease amongst the jungles. Three days travel put him in the epicenter of a large rainforest, at a place where three rivers intersected. He stayed at this place for a day, but his time spent seemed like eternity, and here, etched in the dirt with a gnarled stick, the philosophers left his wisdoms about the earth. He cupped handfuls of soil in his hands and each handful forgave a past and future enemy of his for their sins against him and against the world. The man had never believed in Saint Elimine's divinity, never believed in a God, but nonetheless had an absolute certainty that there was a different immense power in the world living inside every human being, a thought that sustained him while wandering alone.

Sometime in the second week, he had found himself lost in a particularly wooden thicket, following broken trails of branches and detritus to the same point over and again. It was here that he wrote his scathing observations on his paper with a crow's feather quill, the writ showing as angry, scrawled pitch-black. In the cities crowded by towers of stone, it was necessary to hide his emotions, to conceal his anger and frustration at humankind, at how they rose so quickly to harm their brothers, at how they rose so quickly to use their soaring, otherworldly ambitions to beat others down. There was no such necessity here amongst the towers of wood. Here his anger and frustration seethed free, following which he bade the trees and the earth and the sky his forgiveness. The man sighed when he finished writing, and erased the words with his sandals. He smiled then.

In the third week, the man's solitary travels began to wear on his soul. He had traveled the world and not found a single woman who loved him as much as he loved the earth that sheltered them all. But he was not without love for a family, as he fathered an orphan boy, an only child who became a proud soldier at his father's blessing- gone to harm his fellow man and have his head cracked open by his fellow man. Since the day he met the boy, the traveling man believed in his heart that the boy had a gift for oration, ever since he had stood at the middle of the city square decrying the insolence of the overpriced street vendors, when there were men dying of hunger in the streets, wasting away for lack of coin. The cheers and elation of the crowds, being told exactly what they wanted to hear in exactly the manner they wanted to be told, contrasted sharply the guttural screams of a dying soldier, who was unable to voice his true reasons through the pain of _pain_. Yet, as he aged, the boy had come to the realization every child discovers: the rational can only speak rationally to the rational. The child had learned the international language of violence, as it was necessary for him to do so, and because he had entered a world where words no longer carried worth.

By the fourth week, the traveler missed his son more than ever. He prayed to a nameless god that his son's sword would kill no men, that he would give no reason to be killed in return. His quotes, written wistfully on his paper, spoke gently about pacifism, less for the world's sake this time than for his son's. He remembered vividly- vivid as the color of the orange and blue sky that night- of how he closed his hand around his son's, the basalt stone carving of a crow's feather (a beloved memory from the man's past) passed like a torch from father to son. He remembered- would never, ever forget- how the trinket seemed to twinkle brightly when his son's tears fell on it. "This gift", he had said, "is a symbol of my love."

It was the fifth week, if the traveler remembered correctly, when he was taken. The appearance of pegasi here, skirting above the tips of the trees like ornisails, was not unusual in an uncharted paradise. The traveler, too small under the canopy's span, could not have seen the riders bearing spears on the beasts' backs. After the forest left, and the mountains rose to visit, the pegasi became less and less, and instead great wyverns emerged, rising like avalanches from the mountaintops. He had wondered why they burst forth so hastily until he saw an entire battalion rise from the peaks and soar downward. As they dove further, the traveler's eyes widened in fear as he saw large and menacing emblem-bearing cloths and coats of arms draped over the creatures' scaly backs.

-

_"Let love conquer fear."_

_"Have sympathy for humankind. There is no greater power than your own brothers."_

_"Nothing could be done worse to you than you could do to another."_

-

It took nearly a half-hour for the prisoner to remember where he was, why the room around him was dark. He had no quill with which to mark his days, no way to etch memories on the walls, and so there was no way to keep track of how long he had been here. He remembered it had not been a terribly long time: They had spoken of executing him as soon as they could. The prisoner still did not know who these people were: He had expected at least the courtesy of knowing the identity of his executioner. He oculd barely remember how he arrived here, or why he arrived here, or when he arrived here, only that it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep a single thought in his head without everything jumbling.

Torchlight moved toward his cell in the darkness, eventually showing itself as a small flame in the heart and palm of a woman, the woman with the red hair and the dull-brown cloak.

"I brought you this," she said, laying a soft piece of white bread and a small bottle of milk in his cell. She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

"T-thank you," the prisoner said, still dazed. The rasping, distant sound of his voice startled him.

"I'm sorry," she repeated at length, shaking her head. Her eyes were unnaturally warm and sympathetic for this dark, cold place, gleaning bright like wayward souls on their way back home.

"I hope I can get out of here," the captive said. "I think…there's someone I'd like to see again…out there."

The prisoner remembered seeing this woman before and etching her face in her memory, but forgot why he had. The warmth of the bread and the smooth wonder of the milk seemed distantly familiar as well. "What is…your name, miss?"

The red-haired woman looked away, eyeing the stairs leading up. "I'm sorry. I can't tell you that. I have to leave. It would seem odd that I'm being so friendly to you."

The prisoner had wondered about that and went to inquire about it when the red-haired woman hastily excused herself and flitted away, leaving a now-empty bottle of milk and the sweet scent of wildflower behind. The captive forewent his evening meal, instead spending the entirety of the night with his eyes pressed shut, thoroughly etching the woman's kind face into his memory. He lamented the fact that even something simple as that was hard to do.

-

_"Even the homeless have a home. It is merely more difficult to see."_

_"Do not sacrifice your emotion to achieve harmony. Be angry, be sad, be joyful. It is by these ways we truly become human."_

_"I am lucky to have lived among the worldly. What if there is no otherworld? I have enjoyed what little time I have, and I am thankful having suffered as much as I have triumphed."_

-

The prisoner woke hungry this morning. A man came down shortly to deliver a dish of stale bread and sea water to break his fast. The prisoner had never seen this man before, a strange fellow with a cloth wrapped around his head. He was missing the faculties of one eye.

"So you are the traveler we've caught captive?"

The prisoner rubbed his head, squinting his eyes to see both his food and the man. Even through the darkness, the fumbling prisoner could feel the new jailer's eyes peering directly at him. He radiated a horrible, ghastly feeling.

"They say you're a paragon of dangerous ideas," the jailer said as he glared at his prisoner. "They say your words have eloquence and meaning."

"I-I don't know that," the prisoner said, body shaking as he tore into his bread. "I can only find meaning in my-myself. I cannot look anywhere else…my own happiness begins in myself." He shuddered.

"Perhaps they were right," the jailer said, and the prisoner looked up to see a rampant smile spread over his face. "Do you miss your family?"

The prisoner stopped, gnashed into the rock-hard bread. "I-I don't have any family." No, that wasn't right. That couldn't be right.

The jailer's raucous, bellowing laugher echoed throughout the dungeon, a fearsome roar spreading outward, tendrils creeping into the cell and forcing themselves down the prisoner's ears. "Don't have any family?" the jailer said, looking down on the prisoner. "Then how do you exist? Were you born from a seed, perhaps?"

"I don't know. I'm malnourished. Let me eat. Please," the man rasped, on all fours before he realized he was speaking to the ground. "Please, let me eat…"

"Your health is none of my concern. You are a dangerous criminal. What that we would spare good food from our soldiers to give to you!" The jailer laughed again, haughty, and the prisoner shuddered, cold.

"N-no…"

"I'll send someone to do it tonight, to put you out of your misery," the jailer spoke, malignant and direct. "I'll send a corpse. A corpse to kill a corpse."

-

_"Do not fear death. Respect death. Death is simply an extension of life, but it is understandably frightening to the living."_

-

The prisoner believed it to be afternoon, as they had not come to kill him yet. Instead, the red-haired woman rushed to the dungeon, her cloak flowing behind her. The prisoner immediately sat up, not remembering her face but distinctly remembering the blazing red of her hair.

"Daughter…" he rasped, reaching out for the cell bars even as he rested against the wall opposite. "Daughter, is that you?"

The woman sat a bottle of warm milk inside the cell bars. "I'm sorry. I'm not…"

"I could never forget the face of my daughter. It's you, isn't it? It's been so long. So long, now."

The woman hadn't the heart to tell him otherwise. The prisoner was gaunt, delusional, crawling to the front of the cell. He reached out weakly and she took it in her free hand, holding the blazing torch up to his face with the other. Cold. His hand was cold, and his face was pale and sad.

"What of my writings, my daughter?" the prisoner said, thinking of his teachings, his philosophies. "What happened to my writings? Have you kept them, daughter? Have you kept them for me?"

"I don't know…I think my master put them away somewhere, forgot about them. I'll- I'll try to save them for you. Please, drink that milk. It's warm, and very good. Please, drink it quickly. Please..."

"I want to go home, daughter," the prisoner said, a smile trying to quiver on his lips, his hands trembling. "I don't know what is going on."

"I'm sorry," was the only thing the woman could say. Her eyes too longed for something better. "I'm sorry."

The woman swept away, her cloak swishing behind, and disappeared up the stairs, the dungeon turning to darkness again.

"Daughter…" the man croaked, and fell backwards against the cold floor. He fell into muddled sleep and wished the cell walls would stop closing in when he awoke.

-

_"Misery, like many things, is all in the mind."_

-

The prisoner awoke drenched in a cold sweat. A dull light less than that of a torch consumed the room, accompanied by the pungent odor of death and decay. He crawled on all fours to the bars of his cell, clutching on with his hands and almost falling forward when the door was roughly pulled open. In the light, the prisoner looked up to see the face of fear- the jailer's visage- glaring fiercely at him through the shade. Behind him, a much shorter man stood cloaked both by the shadows and by his disheveled pauper's robes. A menacing crimson slashing the top of his head punctuated a lifeless stare. He held a knife in one hand, arms hanging loosely to his sides.

"I apologize that you had to suffer this long," the jailer said, looking down upon the prisoner with his one evil eye. "But, you are a threat to us, especially if you were to incite the entire world against us with your words."

"W-what-" the prisoner sputtered, unable to muster the strength needed to rise to his feet. He was free, the stairs were just up the hall, but- "w-what are you saying? Don't know...what you're- what you're-"

"We are proponents of power here. Anyone dangerous to our plan must be killed. Besides, you were trespassing in our domain, the Dread Isle, Valor. Don't insist you didn't deserve this punishment." The jailer's face lit up, raging with chaos and madness. His one eye burned and seethed with glee. "You should be honored. Normally I don't come down here for the execution of a simple prisoner, but hearing of your suffering, I decided to grant you this one visit."

"W-why?" the prisoner rasped.

"What is that?" the man asked, glaring directly down at the small man writhing at his feet. "What are you saying?"

"Why…why are you doing this? Don't...understand."

"To better our world!" the jailer said, as though the answer were self-evident. His colossal cloak gave a powerful _presence_ to his stature. "My ultimate goal is a strength beyond that of chaos, beyond that of disorder, beyond that of poverty, beyond that of the ignoble, beyond that of ruling classes, and beyond that of weakness. Without these unneeded things, staring into the face of a power beyond mortal ken but beneath my influence, there is no reason to believe the world will not thrive."

His soliloquy meant nothing to the prisoner. "I don't…understand. Is this all…the Truth?" The prisoner trembled, his lips lingering on the last word.

"It is all true. If you believe anything in your last moments, believe that. Take the secret of my omnipotent with you to the grave."

"I…I…"

The jailer opened his clenched fist, let a small object flutter from his hand to the ground. The prisoner took it from the floor of the cell, put it up to his face, looked at it in the dim light. It was a crow's feather, black as the dungeon's air.

"A crow's feather symbolizes death in some cultures," the man with the singular eye said. "Did you know that? A wonderful gift to give to one about to die."

The prisoner's heart sank in his chest. Hearing this made him afraid. Was this the fear humans face in the hour of their mortality? His hand shook when he held the feather and felt as if his memories, the memories he could not remember, were crushing him under its feet.

"I…I never knew…such a thing."

"A crow's feather," the jailer said, baring his teeth in a ferocious smile, "speaks to the hopelessness of man. It is…hopeless."

The prisoner began to cry silently, his tears falling on the jet-black of the feather. He found it oddly fascinating how it twinkled so brightly in the dim light.

"I'm sorry…"

He felt one quick surge of pain course through his chest, and then it was over in a whiplash of red and a blur of melted grays and whites. The prisoner's descent was slow, as if expecting, fearing someone would join him shortly after.

The mighty jailer turned away, half-amused, wondering why in the name of the Fang the _prisoner_ would apologize to _him_! Presently, he dismissed his assassin, whose blade stung with the ex-philosopher's blood. Now alone with the body, the jailer picked up the crow's feather, crushed it in his blazing hand and let it fall again to the ground, charred and ashen, as he had no further use for such obtuse symbols.


End file.
